My Last Visit To My Family Home
My Last Visit
I had one last visit to my family house,
Before it was given over to a new life,
One last visit,
Before its walls would be stripped bare,
Revealing textures we had never seen.
Before all the little faults, the cracks,
That made it home,
Would be clinically repaired,
And history white washed away.
My last visit to my family home,
I sat where my father had,
I lay in my old bedroom,
and picked out strange patterns and shapes,
Painted in time on the stained bedroom ceiling.
I admired Old pen marks,
Scribed onto torn papered walls,
Waiting to mean something again,
Domestic cave art channeling emotions,
Crying out Stories from our childhood past.
If a house could talk and feel,
This one spoke, cried and laughed at me,
In a voice drenched in heavy emotions,
In a voice that filled ever room,
With air made thick with feelings,
Feelings making space for hidden ghosts,
Quietly whispering of histories past.
And as I walked to the door one last time,
I turned,
Touched the wall,
And I think I said a silent prey,
One of thanks for times gone by,
And one,
Wishing,
For us both to move on.
John Roberts
December 2016
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